


You’ve Got Me Where You Want

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: South Park
Genre: Child Abuse, Evil!Tweek, Grooming, Kidnapping, Lots of Child Abuse, M/M, Mindfuck, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 03:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Kind of a spin off of You're The Blood, I'm the Seed. Except in this version, Tweek never got out of the basement.
Relationships: Frederick Johnson/Tweek Tweak, Tweek Tweak/Original Male Character(s), frederick johnson/original male character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	You’ve Got Me Where You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You're the Blood, I'm the Seed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12734838) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 

“I'm bringing you home a little brother,” Ghost had told Tweek before heading out for the night.

Tweek had felt unusually small then, sitting on the floor, eating chicken McNuggets out of a paper bag after Ghost had told him he couldn't cook tonight. Ghost used to buy him McDonald's a lot, when he was younger, but he had stopped when Tweek's voice started to crack.

But tonight was a special occasion.

The graying man had been standing beside the door, decked out in that outfit. The outfit that Tweek sometimes still had nightmares about, nearly nine years after the first and last time he had first laid eyes on it. It was what the man had been wearing that night he had appeared in Tweek's room like some ethereal spirit, claiming to be the Ghost of Human Kindness. Green and gold and luminescent. Or maybe the luminescence had been a figment of Tweek's own imagination because tonight it had looked limp and cheap, likely some old Father Christmas costume the man had picked up at a second-hand store years ago.

Dusty. The cloth fraying.The old rag stunk of moth balls and wet winter boots and left a rancid smell lingering in Tweek's basement hours after the man had left. The blond had resorted to eventually wiping a bit of Vick's under his nose to try to cover the scent but the result had just hinted at a new, unimproved variety of moth balls: menthol scented! Now, at your local Walgreens!

Walgreens. Was Walgreens a real store? Or was Tweek remembering wrong? Maybe he's mixing it up with Wal-Mart. Fusing it with another store, perhaps, with “green” in the name. But when he tries to think of what other store from his childhood could possibly had contained the word “green” he comes up blank. Was there such thing as a Green's Grocery?

What does it matter anyway?

It hurts Tweek's head to try to remember things that flick in and out of the corner of his mind like a dying lightbulb. It makes the area behind his eyes ache.

He goes to sleep instead of trying to think. And when he wakes up, Ghost is there. And there's an unconscious boy in his arms. Dressed in what looks like the torn remnants of a rabbit costume. He looks very small. He's also very, very blond.

Tweek touches his own head without thinking. Different type of blond. Tweek has always been a vibrant, brassy shade, but this boy is almost platinum. The boy's hair is also thinner and wavier than Tweek's, putting into his mind the idea of cornsilk, and from there the long remembered scent of fresh corn as his mother had torn off the husks as she prepared dinner in their overheated kitchen that always reeked of coffee and cookies.

“Move,” Ghost says quietly. Not gently, necessarily. He's being quiet for somebody else. Somebody that isn't Tweek. And that feels very, very strange.

Tweek isn't used to Ghost giving somebody else attention.

He isn't sure how that makes him feel. He should feel relief, he thinks. With this new boy here, Ghost will have less need for him. Might even ignore him completely.

But he's already been doing that lately. Not coming down every night to see him. And somehow the long hours of silence and solitude seem worse than the other stuff.

He moves though. Tweek slides out from beneath the blankets of his bed and the air feels icy. The ground is especially shocking. Same sort of shocking cold you get when sitting on a cold toilet seat in the middle of the night.

Late night October air in Colorado. Or maybe it's early morning November air. Last night was Halloween. Usually, Ghost and Tweek would stay home together for Halloween. There would be fresh cookies and apple cider and they'd watch non-scary Halloween movies like the _Great Pumpkin_ or the _Scary Godmother. _Ghost used to buy him new outfits to dress in every year but he stopped doing that when he reached the age other boys stopped going trick or treating. But they still watched movies and drank cider and even carved pumpkins, though they had to use electric lights inside because Ghost was afraid of the basement catching fire.

They didn't carve pumpkins this year.

Instead, Ghost went out on his own, and Tweek fell asleep with a headache.

And now there's this boy in his bed. This boy with softer, lighter colored hair than Tweek's and softer, darker colored skin. He's in Tweek's warm spot and Tweek is standing to the side with his arms around himself, feeling like he's going to throw up. His entire body is shivering and he's gritting his teeth so hard he's afraid they're going to break. His jaw feels like concrete.

He had no idea if he's cold or if it's nerves.

He doesn't do well with anxiety. He never has. That's why his parents used to give him coffee to calm him down, wasn't it?

“Where did you get him?” Tweek asks. He realizes this is a stupid question. He doesn't know why he asks it or even that he planned on asking it until the words are already echoing silently against the cold stone walls. He also doesn't particularly care about the answer. This boy is here now, and unless Ghost suddenly decides he doesn't want him, here he will stay.

“Nearly the same place I got you,” Ghost says. He's tucking the boy in now, drawing the blanket up close under his chin. Not leaving any room for Tweek to join him.

Tweek stares at the boy. His eyelashes are the same light gold as his hair and they look like glitter against his cheeks. He's so deep in sleep, so calm and content, that Tweek knows this sleep isn't natural.

“South Park?” Tweek asks, again not particularly caring for an answer. South Park is just a random city name to him now. Like Denver, or Los Angeles, or Hong Kong. Some place he's heard about but never plans on traveling to.

“Yep,” Ghost confirms with a happy little hum. He sounds so pleased with himself. So fucking happy to have another little boy in his basement. One that isn't tall and bony with hair on his balls who has to shave his face every other day.

At least he stopped making Tweek shave his balls.

Tweek wonders why Ghost would return to South Park. Why strike twice in the same small town? Maybe Ghost was from South Park himself? Maybe he was once a little boy skating on the pond and sneaking into the theater? Tweek has often wondered what it could be that possibly attracted Ghost to kids. Tweel may have just been one himself last time he set foot outside of this room but even he knows that isn't normal. Maybe Ghost is looking for a boy like he once was, like that Jefferson guy some of the other kids used to hang around with. Maybe that's why he goes for South Park, looking for an echo of his own past.

Or maybe South Park just doesn't lock their doors.

“What's his name?” Tweek asks instead of any of these questions. He keeps asking stupid, pointless questions, and he supposes it's because he's trying to ask the questions he thinks Ghost would like. He's well trained to do that, to try to keep Ghost happy.

“Heinrich,” Ghost says, but he isn't looking at Tweek. He's still kneeling at the side of the bed, touching the boy's face. Tweek can't see him from here but he's sure he's smiling, happy with himself and his newest possession. “Little weird for an eight year old. But his friends call him Fella. Heinrich Fella Stotch. So we'll just call him Fella.”

Stotch. Tweek is pretty sure he's heard that name before.

But all his muddled late-night brain comes up with is Wal-Stotch.

He's thinking of this in his head, the idea of Wal-Stotch melding into green scotch tape on the stone walls, when he realizes Ghost has passed by him, his form lumbering and bear-like.

“Where are you going?” Tweek demands to know, a sudden ringing in his ears as Ghost heads towards the door. Panic. Why is he panicking?

“I have to be up in five hours for work,” Ghost says, shrugging. He doesn't look at Tweek as he puts in the code to open the door. He's still wearing the green and gold outfit. The smell of moth balls is gone. “Tomorrow's Friday, we'll have the weekend to work with him together.”

“When will he wake up?”

“The sedative should wear off in just a couple hours.”

That doesn't answer the question.

* * *

The bed is big enough for two. Of course it is; if it can fit Tweek and Ghost it can fit this small boy and Tweek without any problem. Still, he cowers on one side of the bed, as far away from this child as he possibly can. Something about the kid feels diseased. He's from the outside world and emits an aura of uncleanliness.

Or maybe it's just the general aura of uncleanliness all kids carry. Diseased, nose picking, snot-rubbing, pants shitting creatures that they are.

Tweek doesn't know when the boy wakes up. Mostly because Tweek is not allowed clocks. He also can't see the sun without any windows. So it might be morning, it might still be dark out. But when he does wake up he immediately starts hitting at Tweek with his hands and demanding he be taken home.

Some sort of weird accent. Almost like a southern drawl, which makes Tweek wonder if the boy isn't a South Park native.

Tweek shoves him away and tells him he has no say over whether or not he stays or goes.

“I was taken when I was your age and I'm still here so you might as well just get used to the idea of never seeing the sun again.”

Oddly, the child doesn't cry for his mother or father. He cries for dairy products? For hours. No matter how many times Tweek shouts at him to shut up or threatens to spank him.

“We only have spread in the fridge,” Tweek gripes, finally shoving a container of Country Crock into the boy's hands. The kid looks up at him with giant blue eyes, seemingly as confused by the entire situation as Tweek is.

“Butters is my b, brother,” the boy stutters through heaving breaths. He throws the container on the ground. It splits but it's cold enough it just stays in one giant chunk of yellow clay. “I want my brother! I want my brother! I want Butters!”

What kind of lunatic names their kid after a dairy product?

The same sort that names an American kid in the 2000s Heinrich, apparently.

“Your brother isn't here. That's another thing you'll have to get used to.”

It doesn't shut him up. Nothing seems to. If he isn't screaming he's bawling, if he isn't bawling he's moaning, and if he isn't moaning he's sniffling.

Tweek manages to fall asleep at one point, during a sniffling phase, but is awoken by a sudden scream that has him jumping out of the bed to storm across the tiny basement and land a blow to the side of the boy's head. He doesn't even realize he's awake, let alone hitting the child, until the boy is crouching at his feet, holding his head, and making a sound like a dying pig.

“Just shut up!” Tweek screams at him, balling his hands into fists at his side. “Jesus Christ! He hasn't even fucked you yet! What are you complaining about?”

“I want my brother,” the child hiccups between sobs.

“Too fucking bad! I wanna go to Disneyland but here we are.”

Tweek didn't ask for this. He didn't ask for a fucking child to take care of. He didn't ask to be locked in this basement.

This is unfair. Why keep him around if he has a replacement?

Doesn't Ghost trust him? After all these years?

Well, Tweek supposes, if he trusted him, he wouldn't keep the door locked, would he?

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters are gonna be short because I don't have that much free time right now, but I haven't written in nearly a year and just kinda felt like I needed to.


End file.
